


Advent

by anonstarbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Advent Calendar, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Smut, First Time, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:25:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonstarbuck/pseuds/anonstarbuck





	1. Week One

The basement calendar behind Mulder is covered with blank orange post-it notes, but when Scully takes one look at his smug grin, she refuses to make a comment or ask questions. She knows he will eventually tell her what this is all about, one way or another.

**December 1st:**

The first post-it of the month has been removed and there is nothing written underneath. Only a small white rectangle amongst a sea of fluorescent orange. She sits and tries to find her notes and the pen she had out yesterday but can’t see them anywhere. She opens the drawer and sees the orange post-it, stuck on a small tub containing something white and creamy. In Mulder’s almost demonic script it reads: _Home-made cream cheese. Real. 12pm break. I also learned how to make bagels._

 **December 2nd:**  
  
She’s not surprised when she sees that the second post-it is off the calendar, but a little cautious when she realises it’s stuck on the back of a picture lying on the desk. It reads simply _Call him Ishmael_. She cringes slightly as she flips the picture over and finds a glossy and somewhat overexposed shot of a spotted short-finned molly fish. She hadn’t heard him come in, but his voice parts the room with a soft grumble “He’s living at mine’s, but he’s yours, Scully” she hears him say softly behind her.  
  
“Feel free to visit him whenever you like.”

**December 3rd:**

She arrives early to catch him, but the third space is already devoid of its post-it. She blushes slightly at how juvenile she feels, how giddy she must look. She looks around the office eagerly, the basement lights still humming from so recently being turned on. There. Over there on that glass thing. The orange note says _VIRUS-FREE_ and she snorts when she recognises the bee pollen inside the small, beautiful jar.

**December 4th:**

It’s a book of prayers of a myriad of cultures from around the world. There’s nothing written on the post-it but she finds her hospital wristband from when she had cancer tucked inside like an old bookmark, and on it he’d written: _I tried all of them, Scully. Every. single. one._

**December 5th:**

It’s on an envelope. Inside is the menu of a small, but beautiful-looking restaurant in Chesapeake Bay famous for its crabs. He’s circled the most expensive bottle of sauvignon blanc on it and next to it scribbled, _I’ll drive us back home, but first Scully, teach me to sail. I can’t promise I won’t make any mast jokes, though. - M._

She closes her eyes and smiles at the thought of her and Mulder freezing on a boat in December and shakes her head. She imagines the taste of the crisp wine in her mouth and feels a thrill like she hasn’t in a long time. It feels old and comfortable. It also feels, amazingly, like a date.  
  
She walks towards the orange-covered calendar and writes on the 6th post-it: _Ok, but we need to start taking turns._ Feeling strangely reckless, adolescent even, she reaches for the drawer where she sometimes keeps Mulder’s sunflower seeds hidden away from him, and reaches for a closed bag. She re-applies her lipstick, kisses the post-it, sticks it to the plastic packaging, and leaves it on his desk, the rapid clicking of her heels exiting the office echoing the loud thumping inside her chest.

**December 6th:**

When she comes in, the sunflower seeds have been eaten and binned already. She scans the room, and to her surprise, she finds the post-it with her lipsticked kiss on it stuck to the UFO on Mulder’s beloved _I Want to Believe_ poster. Upon closer inspection, she realises that it’s slightly smeared, as if a thumb had stroked the red where her lower lip had been.

**December 7th:**

The box has every type of microwavable popcorn she’s ever seen as well as half a dozen VHS. She laughs as she sorts through them, _It’s a Wonderful Life, Gremlins, Miracle on 34th Street, Die Hard, Meet me in St. Louis, Ghostbusters II_. The post-it poses a series of essential questions: _Your place or mine? Pizza or Thai? Santa: hoax or real?_

She sits and crosses her legs while waiting for him to come in. She can’t wait to discuss all of these important interrogatives with him.


	2. Week Two

He breezes into the office balancing two takeaway cups of coffee, coat billowing out behind him like he’s some kind of caffeine-carrying superhero and she wonders how long she’s been ignoring the fact that her breath catches slightly every time she sees him now. He grins at her and offers her a cup, the grin widening to a full-fledge smile when he sees that she’s opened the box of popcorn and movies.  
  
“I know December is a crazy month, Scully, holidays and all. But let me know if you have some spare time one of these days and we can…”

  
“Mulder I’m just spending Christmas Eve and Day with my mom. Charlie and Bill are overseas, Tara’s taking the kids to her parent’s this year and…well, it’s not a big family reunion this time around.”  
  
She doesn’t need to mention Ahab and Melissa. It hasn’t been a big family reunion for some time now. Trying to shift away from the subject of her family she’s about to ask him what his plans are for Christmas, but she gets a flash of him sitting in heavy silence with his mother in a lavish yet stale living room and says to him instead “Tonight. Your place. Pizza. And Santa? Total hoax.”  
  
He feels a surge of warmth at the knowledge that she’ll only have a single slice of pizza. That he’ll time and calculate her reaching for popcorn so that he can occasionally brush her fingertips with his. That she’ll make a comment about how cute Gizmo is but promptly fall asleep after the first twenty minutes of the film.  
  
“I’m sure I have a file somewhere on a mysterious man named Kris Kringle, Scully.”  
  
**December 8th**  
  
She had only slept through half of the movie. When he walks in she is sitting, trying her damnedest to ignore him, but looking too smug and self-satisfied to pass-off a believable sense of nonchalance. The large box boasts of containing Washington DC’s finest root beer and Mulder can’t help but waggle his eyebrows at the brand. The Thunder Beast root beer box seems to have about a month’s worth of contents inside. The orange post-it on top has a simple, Lewis Carroll message. _Open me_.  
  
Not root beer, but iced tea. Bottles and bottles of his favourite local iced tea. He wants to laugh and he starts to, but his chuckle sounds choked up, the chest emitting it, tight.  
  
“Scully,” he begins but she meets his gaze, somewhat shyly, and smiles, and he doesn’t need to say anything at all.  
  
**December 9th**  
  
It’s no longer about Christmas but they refuse to say anything about it like they refuse to say anything when it comes to their relationship. They can discuss the possibility of moth men and man-sized flukes but there’s a beauty to this gift-giving that feels a little sacred. It feels like a dialogue only they could understand.  
  
The post-it rests on top of a children’s toy chemistry set. _You’re a medical doctor, so you’ve got down Biology. You’ve re-written Einstein, so I know you know your Physics. I had one of these when I was in school. Here’s a little something to see if we’ve got Chemistry._  
  
She strokes the word Chemistry over and over with her finger and doesn’t have a doubt in her mind that they do.  
  
  
**December 10th**

He doesn’t see a post-it but rather a beautiful wooden baseball bat leaning against the back of his chair. He picks it up easily, the weight of it warm and familiar in his grip. He turns it slightly to appreciate the craftsmanship and his eye is caught by the subtle engraving on the top where normally there would be a brand-name. _What can be imagined can be achieved_.  
  
He thinks back on that night when he and Scully were looking up at the stars, the Apollo 11 keychain in her hand, and all of the things he wanted to say to her about teamwork and their partnership, but had just teased her instead and said that he’d just thought it was a “cool keychain.” He swears to himself that he’ll take her to games and to the batting cage like one would go to church.   
  
**December 11th**  
  
She gasps at the recognisable robin blue of the Tiffany’s box sitting on the desk and tries to think rationally. With surprisingly unsteady fingers, she lifts up the top to find an orange post-it inside reading, _I love my bat. This is just something that reminded me of you_. She removes the orange square of paper and for the first time in what feels like a long time, she tosses her head back and laughs uproariously. The earrings are beautiful, a soft gold, flat and with intricate grooves weaved on it. Only someone who would know from personal experience, upon closer inspection, that they were fashioned to look like alien implants.  
  
When they’re eating lunch together, comfortably, she angles her earlobe at him so that he can see that she’s wearing them. He pretends to look at them while he drinks in the curve of her jawline instead.  
  
**December 12th**  
  
It’s a hand-bound book, the cover made of beautiful leather. The post-it reads:   _I gathered these after I found out you had read my thesis. I’d be your number one fan if I didn’t disagree with so many of these so damn ardently._  
  
The book is a compilation of everything he has ever written since he left Oxford, most of them written under pen-names. On the top margin of the first article she had written, _I could recognise your voice anywhere, Mr. Luder._ And he wonders if she can somehow hear him calling out to her while he’s half-conscious on his couch, thinking of her.  
  
**December 13th**  
  
She’s fuming by the time she reaches the office. It’s not supposed to rain anytime this week but as soon as she gets to work it starts to pour, turning the roads into a slushy mess of brown snow and dirt slop. She doesn’t have any form of protection from the rain and her shoes are relatively new and undamaged yet by monsters and the paranormal. Grumbling, she takes off her coat and startles when she sees Mulder come out from the back, smiling triumphantly. He’s holding something behind his back and she can feel her annoyance start to melt away to curiosity and excitement. She quirks an eyebrow inquisitively and he extends his arm out to her as if holding a bouquet of flowers.  
  
It’s an umbrella.  
  
He silently hands her the post-it and walks back to the desk. She looks down and sees that the umbrella is covered in cartoon drawings of sleeping bags. Mulder’s writing on the post-it is neater than usual: _For when you look up, so that it’s always raining sleeping bags._  
  
**December 14th:**  
  
He’s surprised at the bare desk, the orange note stuck on it looking solitary and a little sad. He looks at it and it feels more like a high-school note than a post-it message. _When was the last time you ate a home-cooked meal, Mulder? Come over to my place. Tell me what you want to eat._  
  
His reaction is overwhelming and it takes him by surprise. Not only does the note feel like it belongs in high school. So does he. The images that flew into his mind when reading her invitation, the string of thoughts so incredibly filthy, that, not for the first time, Mulder had to lock himself up in the basement bathroom and thrust furiously into his hand while swallowing his moans holding her name.  
  
 _You, Scully. You._


	3. Week Three and Christmas Eve

He hesitates before knocking on her door, feeling stupid. He had stood inside the shop for over twenty minutes, shifting from foot to foot like a stuttering student giving an oral presentation, incapable of making a decision. Should he get her flowers? Was this paradigmatic shift in their relationship one to steer him into buying her flowers romantically? How can he buy her dahlias or tulips when all of the other times he’s gotten her any kind of bloom he’s been sweatily gripping at them in her cancer ward or her daughter’s funeral?

He looks down at the bag in his hand and hopes he’s made the right choice. Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra seemed like a better option. He already knows she will like it, it keeps things casual and he can watch her swirl her tongue around the spoon in that way that she does that makes it seem like it’s in slow-motion. Then he can go back home with something to think about. He also brought wine, just in case, as if Chilean merlot had magical properties that might allow him to stay and see if he and the spoon could take turns.

He knocks and she answers the door with a wide smile. They both blush at themselves, at the fact that they’re staring at each other in her doorway, grinning stupidly until she finally has the sense to take the bag from him, show him inside and tell him that she hopes he’s hungry. He is.

He sniffs the air wolfishly and she wrongly thinks it’s because he can smell the roasted chicken, the baked potatoes, the vegetables simmering. And he can, yes, but he’s taking in the air because, there. There it is again. He’s right, she’s wearing perfume. She’s wearing perfume and tight black slacks that cup her ass the way he wishes his hands could, and a grey sweater that stops just below the curve of her collarbone and he doesn’t give a fuck about roast dinners.

The meal is delicious and comfortable. She lets him dry while she washes and they’re both aware that the other is enjoying the times their arms brush, the sweet agonising anticipation, the domesticity.

They go to the living room and watch each other put ice-cream in their mouths, lips doing to fudge what they want to do to skin. The merlot is not magic, but they drink it anyway and laugh and talk until its late and she walks him to the door. He leans on her doorframe and contemplates her face, slightly flushed from the wine and what, he’s almost positive, is arousal.

He leans down and kisses her cheek, nudging the lobe of her ear with his nose and she feels the halt in her breath. He hovers, just a little, and then leans back.

“Good night, Scully.”

She is still staring at his bottom lip as she’s closing the door, her mouth parted slightly.

**December 15th:**

He takes off the post-it from the calendar but doesn’t write anything on it. He just hands her the envelope and says simply. “You deserve to be pampered.” She exclaims a delighted, “Mulder!” when she sees the two vouchers for a spa day at the Mandarin Oriental. His eyes crinkle at her excitement.

“Take your mom. Get facials and massages and your nails done, the works. Have a relaxing day.”

He oomphs faintly when she hugs him tightly. He inhales deeply when she lingers.

**December 16th:**

The envelope is on his desk, the post-it on it reads. _I want you to come with me_. He is less surprised this time when he gets marble-hard against his trousers while re-reading. When he uses the bathroom this time, he imagines that he’s making love to her slowly, deeply, their bodies soft and slippery from the massage oils.   
  
**December 17th:**  
  
She’d never been so wet in her life until the previous day, when her back was rubbed by a stranger while watching her partner get professionally stroked in the same room and in the same manner as her. Their faces had been turned towards the other, carefully watching their every expression while the masseuses hit spots that made the other groan softly, eyelashes fluttering with pleasure.   
  
“Enough,” she thinks to herself today, and sets the delicate sprig of mistletoe on his chair. She sticks the post-it next to it. It’s a single word but she wants to scream it, or better yet hiss it against his neck.  
  _Please.  
_  
 **December 18th** :  
  
She’d come in while he was still holding the mistletoe on the palm of his hand, awed and unexpectedly, very, very moved. She’d stopped short and he looked up swiftly, as if caught doing something wrong. Only when she ran her lip over her upper lip as if to say something, did he start, and swiftly covered the steps separating them. He pressed his mouth against hers and felt its welcoming warmth. He sprinkled light kisses while she sighed and kissed her once more, a little less chastely, suckling on the pout of her mouth before pulling back.   
  
“Mmmm.” She’d said.  
  
“Mmmm.” He’d agreed. And handed her a set of pale pink silk sheets with a post-it that read _I hope you don’t think that I’m being presumptuous. These are for whenever you’re ready.  
_  
 **December 19th:**  
  
The videocamera is small and the post-it on it says, _I’ll be ready soon. And maybe then we’ll film that honeymoon video.  
_  
A third trip to the basement bathroom. This time he doesn’t care that she might walk into the office and overhear him. He wants her to know. He wants her to come in and watch.  
  
 **December 20th:**  
  
The assortment of bath salts in the basket is almost obscene. She takes each one up to her nose and takes in their scent and only turns around when she feels that he is right behind her. When she’s facing him, he hands her the post-it and watches her intently. _I want to be there when you use them_. Her mouth goes dry, the spot between her legs does the exact opposite and when she locks eyes with him she feels her voice quiver slightly. _Yes_ , she sighs. _Yes_.

 **December 21st:**  
  
She walks in briskly, a little breathlessly, and the purposefulness of her walk makes him sit back in his chair. She reaches into her pocket and drops something small and black into his lap and he inspects it while she’s hanging up her coat.   
  
“Scully!” he exclaims and delicately strokes the soft material of the lace underwear in his hands. He shifts in his seat, his erection straining against his clothes, against his better judgement, against gravity, and he tries to joke. “Very Girl Scout of you, to bring a spare. You get extra Brownie points.”  
  
She presses her hand against his chest and leans in.   
  
“They’re not spares.”  
  
She smiles at his mouth when he moans and closes his eyes. “Scully, when. I’m dying here.”  
  
She flicks the dip on his lower lip with her tongue and whispers “Christmas” before pressing the heat of her mouth against his.   
  
 **December 22nd:**  
  
The catalogue has been placed carefully in her briefcase. The post-it reads _I can’t stop touching yesterday’s gift. I don’t think you’ll ever get it back. Please feel free to get anything from here. Anything. Everything. My treat._  
  
She crosses and uncrosses her legs trying to relieve the tension building up there. She looks down at the different beautiful pieces of lingerie that Agent Provocateur has to offer and chooses the outfit that she wants to wear the first time she lets Mulder undress her. The first time she lets him inside her.  
  
 **December 23rd:**  
  
She doesn’t use a post- it. She just takes the orange note off of the calendar. She walks to her desk, sits down calmly and takes out her notes from her briefcase on the floor while he shamelessly looks down her blouse from across the room.  
  
“Come to my mother’s house for Christmas Eve, Mulder.” she says evenly and he can’t help but feel a little disappointed.   
  
She licks the tip of her pen and begins to work, only to pause for a second and adds, “I’ll let you do things to me on my childhood bed.”  
  
 **December 24th:**  
  
There’s two dreidels next to her case files. The post-it reads, _I hope you don’t mind, but I’m bringing a little bit of my version of holiday cheer. A little Mulder into the Scully household.  
_  
She looks at the dreidels closely and then looks up at him. His hands are clasped and his chin is resting on this thumbs, watching her. One dreidel has verbs like _blow, kiss, lick, suck_ on it. The other, parts of the body. She can easily guess the game.  
  
“Ok, but I go first.”


	4. Christmas Eve

Her phone rings and it takes all of her resolve to not pick up immediately. She lets it sound twice and bites her lip smiling at her almost juvenile giddiness.   
  
"Scully."   
  
Despite the fact that she hasn't run to answer, her own name somehow still sounds breathless against the receiver.  
  
Mulder's voice sounds equally winded, but with real if not muted exertion. She knows him well enough to know that he has been running around.   
  
"Should I wear a tie?" Is his mode of greeting and she grins at the image of him staring down at his couch, gaudy tie after gaudy tie laid out on the black leather.  
  
"I thought you liked my mother," she answers playfully and can feel him chortle slightly on the other end. "Mulder, don't worry. It's absolutely casual."   
She allows herself to think of him in his out of work clothes. The sleek black leather jacket, the snug cotton, the threadbare Knicks shirt. She continues "Wear whatever you like."  
  
"What are you wearing?"    
  
"Jeans and a sweater, probably," and from the silence on the other side of the phone she can tell that he's thinking about the way her ass looks in jeans. He's only seen her wear them a few times and there is always a moment of taciturn quiet in which he subtly inspects her while sticking both his hand in his pockets with feigned ease.   
  
"And now?" He murmurs and she can hear the rustle of movement as he sits on the couch, the slight exhale of his breath somehow warm against her. She hesitates, and considers engaging. She both does and she doesn't by telling a half-truth.   
  
"Now I'm going to take a shower," she informs him, and she feels herself get wet with the image of him thinking of her, dropping her clothes on the tile of her bathroom, of him brushing his hand slowly over the inseam of his pants. "Pick me up at six?"  
  
"Yes." she feels him murmur. "I'll be there. And Scully?" The sound of her name sounds heavy and quietly compelling. She leans in, as if he were going to whisper directly in her ear, which in a way, he does.   
  
"Wear a skirt."  
  
\-----  
  
She smooths her skirt nervously as she makes her way to the door to answer. Mulder is punctual like a German train and she feels strangely naked. The maroon skirt is pleated and pleasantly breezy  and her plain white v-neck exposes her collarbones and her tiny cross but not much more. It's not really the outfit, she thinks to herself. The feeling of breathy lightheadedness really comes from the lingerie she is wearing underneath, the one she has picked out for herself from his advent gift, for him to see.   
  
She knows she dresses in suits of tailored armour. Shifting within the lace and satin underneath, she understands that shields of clothing are not made only for protection, but also for seduction. If her work clothes are a shield, then now she's dressed in regimentals, ready for battle. She's always been good at hand-to-hand combat. She's going to wrestle him raw.   
  
She grabs her purse and jacket and opens the door for him. He's wearing a blue work shirt, grey blazer and jeans and she thinks he looks a little more like an English professor than an FBI agent. She feels like a student with a crush on her superior again. She distractedly wonders what his hours are.   
  
He greets her and swallows slowly, shifting his weight and both feet while they stand inhaling each other subtly. He bends to kiss the corner of her mouth and when he straightens, she touches the place with the tip of her tongue.  
  
"You look beautiful."  
  
She looks up at his eyes, and despite the grey in his clothes, they are moss green and crystalline clear. She puts her hand on his chest, he puts his hand on his lower back, and when she tells him "You look beautiful too", she really, really means it.   
  
\-----  
  
Maggie had been warm and welcoming and three beers and two glasses of wine in he's buzzing with holiday cheer. His stomach and heart feel full as he steps out of the bathroom quietly and listens to mother and daughter washing and drying side by side.   
  
"I'm glad he's here, Dana," he hears Maggie say and his heart swells a little more. Scully stands on her tiptoes to leave glasses in the cupboard and he drinks in the view of her skirt clinging to her curves, pliantly and soft, her feet bare and small against the tiles.   
  
"Thank you for including him, mom," Scully responds after a moment, "I know it was kind of last minute."  
  
Maggie Scully takes her hands out of the sudsy water and uses the kitchen towel to dry her hands throughly and thoughtfully. She looks at her daughter kindly, the way she has for years when Scully thinks her own mother doesn't know her.  
  
"That's not what I mean, honey. I'm happy he's here with you. I'm happy he's with you."  
  
He walks towards the living room when he sees Scully squeeze her mother's hand before hugging her tightly.  He wants to cry but looks delighted instead. When Maggie brings out blankets for the couch before retiring for her room, Mulder looks at Scully and tries to look wounded and she can't help but laugh. Maggie kisses her daughter goodnight, and after a brief pause, stands on her tiptoes like her daughter had before and gives him a peck on the cheek and a pat on the arm.  
  
"Good night, Fox. It's lovely to have you here."  
  
And he knows and Scully knows, that she really, really means it.  
  
\----  
  


—–  
  
The fireplace is on and the living room flickers with a soft yellow glow. He had made himself at home, and popped in a CD. To her surprise, Chet Baker singing “Embraceable You” comes on and he reaches an arm out to her the way he once had at a Cher concert, when she hadn’t been able to tell who had been more delighted: her, or the  mutant sitting behind them as they danced.   
  
He holds her closer this time, tighter. The song is slow, the crooning sweet. He knows the words but doesn’t sing along and she sighs against his chest.   
  
“Scully,” he murmurs and she feels his hand slide a little lower  down her back so she presses a little harder against him, as if eliminating any space between them was synonymous to a green light.  
  
“Yeah,” she breathes and presses her cheek to his shirt.  
  
“Did you bring the dreidel?”   
  
She winces to herself.   
  
“Mulder, I’m sorry. I forgot. I left them on the table, please don’t think that I don’t want to-”  
  
“Hey. Hey it’s ok,” he whispers and she leans back to look at him.   
  
“The first person picks a verb, the second a place,” she suggests somewhat throatily and his eyes widen in delight.  
  
“Scully!”

She grins and leads him towards the couch, Chet Baker still singing in the background. She tucks her hair behind her ear and says simply, if not a little shyly, “Kiss.”  
  
He stares at her lips, at her jawline, her eyelids and it’s as difficult as if Sophie’s Choice had been a happy one. He listens closely as she draws her breath in and holds it while he moves towards her. He presses his mouth to the place where her collar bones meet her chest, his nose on the golden cross, breathing in. _Clavicle_ he corrects himself in her voice. _Sternum_. He has learned to love her words for body parts. She makes them sound like invocations instead of simple flesh.   
  
He drags his lower lip against the freckles that make up Cassiopeia and gives what would be the last freckle of the constellation a kiss before looking up at her. She is looking down at him and the look in her eyes is almost unrecognisable. They are Prussian blue, the pupils like small chasms and the lust in them doesn’t really surprise him. He’s known all along that she’s capable of depths he doesn’t yet get to swim in, but nevertheless it still awes him.   
  
She raises her eyebrows at him, as if daring him and waits for his choice. He licks his lips and exhales slowly. He is calling her bet and raising. The word comes out more like a purr.

  
  
“Suck.”


	5. Christmas

Her eyes widen briefly before they darken noticeably. _Shit_ , he thinks to himself and realises that perhaps he's been too forward, asked for too much. They are, after all, in her mother's living room. He's about to tell her that she can pick the verb, she can pick the place, that she's got the reins and he's saddled up and ready to go at her urging, but more importantly, at her pace, when she leans her weight on his thigh and gets off the couch to settle on the floor between his legs.

"Scu-" he begins but she shushes him and shifts her weight evenly on her knees and he he equally wants to thrust himself into her mouth and chastise himself for imagining if this is what she looks like when she's praying at church; and if so, if he is now acting as her pew or the altar. His cock stiffens at the thought of being either, but also at the way that she is looking at the spot where his shirt meets his belt.

Scully touches his blazer, his shirt, and closes her eyes briefly. Her eyelashes flutter when she looks up at him, and although her voice is commanding, her face looks flushed and pleading.

"Take them off, Mulder," she says quietly and he complies quickly, his cock twitching inches from where her breasts almost meet the fabric of his pants. She stares at his bare chest, his stomach and runs a well-manicured fingernail down the lines of his abdomen, her thumb circling around his bellybutton. She glances up, he stares down at her, and her mouth latches on to his right oblique muscle. The little sigh of satisfaction she gives while the very tip of her tongue swirls over his skin while she sucks on it is enough for him to summon this evening's birthday boy.

"Jesus."

He doesn't know enough anatomy to name the nerve she's playing with there that seems to be directly connected to his groin, but trust Scully to give him a biology lesson on her night off. Her teeth scrape deliciously against the curve of his muscle and the sensation of it goes straight to his dick. Mulder groans quietly and tosses his head back, mouth frozen in an O. She gives him one, two licks and then kisses his stomach goodbye, stands briefly to sit next to him on the couch again, looking triumphantly at the large, painful bulge against his jeans.  
  


Scully squeezes her thighs together trying to relieve some of the tension there, only to find that the only thing she's managing to do is to spread the wetness from between her legs. She still has the taste of Mulder's skin in her mouth, clean and a little salty. She wonders how much saltier he would taste if she had chosen a place to suckle that lies further south, where she truly wanted to go if she had been brave enough. He leans into her and tangles his fingers in the back of her head, playing with the tresses there before he flicks his lower lip across hers and nudges her mouth open with his tongue, gently but firmly. She lets him, and feels her legs fall open as well, as her sex aches for contact.  
  
"Finger," she groans and he groans back into the space between her temple and the shell of her ear.  
  
"Technically a noun, Scully," he murmurs and his hand let's go of the side of her face and starts to inch its way down her collarbone towards her breasts.

Scully seems to growl in frustration and practically snarls when she says, "Please, Mulder."  
  
"Interjection. Noun," he mumbles and he lifts her shirt and urges her to raise her arms so that he can remove it. After doing so, he falls silent. Scully had chosen a see-through black bra with a pattern that covered her nipples but just barely, lingerie appropriately named L'Agent, by Agent Provocateur, paid for by his truly.  
  
"Fuck," he says simply and licks the lace vines over her breasts lazily.  
  
"Fuck," she agrees and feels herself get wetter as her nipples harden almost painfully against the sheer material.    
  
"Mulder," she struggles to get his name out as he suckles her with the trained tongue of the orally fixated, "don't you want to keep playing?"  
  
To her disappointment, he replaces his tongue for his hands and teases her with his thumb.  
  
"This isn't a game, Scully." And he means it.  
  
He kisses the tendon on her neck and gives it a quick, sharp bite  which he then quickly soothes with another gentle caress of his lips. He tucks her hair back the way he has done numerous times, but this time he also whispers hotly and sincerely into her ear.  
  
"Let me fuck you."  
  
She swallows but doesn't reply. She pushes off and stands over him and watches him stare at her as she undoes the side zipper of her skirt and lets it drop the floor. The flickering of the fireplace lights her body and plays with the shadows there. She feels beautiful as he drinks her in. She believes in Christmas miracles.  
  
He touches the top edge of her thigh-highs with his fingertips and runs a slow thumb over the slit of her pussy, her matching panties soaked through and sticky to his touch. She lets go of a slow, shaky exhale as she feels a new surge of desire run towards his thumb and nods, almost imperceptibly. _I want you to fuck me. I've wanted it for years._  
  
His eyes lock with hers and don't let go when he unbuckles his belt and lowers his zipper, one slow teeth at a time. He doesn't stop staring when he kicks off his shoes and pulls his jeans and boxers down and reveals himself to her, thick, hot and marble hard. He merely blinks when she strokes the underside of his cock, marvelling at the size of him, the girth, and wraps her fingers around his base. But when she wraps her lips around the tip of him and takes him into her mouth until he touches the back of her throat, his eyes roll back and he has to hold on to her copper locks for dear life. Scully is going to destroy him and she is going to do it on her knees. If this is how his partner prays, then he wants to go to church, daily. He believes in God-- how could he not, when she is groaning into the length of him like this, the reverberations of her moans vibrating against his balls.   
  
She lets him go. "I want you inside me, Mulder," she says against his stomach, his arousal pressed against her warm cheek, and he has never ever thought that he could agree with her so fervently, despite their fundamental differences.   
  
He lays her on the couch and uses his hands to explore her, from cunt to collarbone, in awe of her body and not giving a damn that they are naked and ready in Maggie Scully's living room.  
  
"This isn't what I'm giving you for Christmas, you know." says Mulder as he presses the hard head of his erection against her hot, slick entrance. Scully simply spreads her legs further open in invitation.  
  
"Give it to me anyway," she sighs, and as he pushes into her slowly, straining and throbbing into the tight wetness of hers, she closes her eyes and undulates her hips sensually. "Like that, yes, just like that."  
  
   
He feels a new swell of desire as she uses her hands to tease herself and he thrusts leisurely in and out of her, leans forward to kiss her. She looks up at him as if daring him and he pushes in harder to meet the challenge, making her gasp. He leans in closer to her and licks her earlobe, memorising the freckles on her shoulder.  
  
"Did you like our advent?" he asks throatily and he teasingly removes himself from her and rubs his tip against her.  
  
"Mmmm" she murmurs as a yes. She's liked it. She likes it still. She is liking it very much. She wiggles her hips trying to get him back inside of her, but he pushes her down gently with one hand splayed over her hipbones and continues to stroke himself against her clit.  
  
"Advent comes from the Latin _ad venire,"_ he informs her in his husky monotone and she moans in frustration. Finally, Mulder flips her over and she gasps with surprise and pleasure as he runs one hand up her spine towards her hair and the other around her stomach to capture and stroke one of her breasts. He bites her shoulder, the way lions do when mating, and pushes into her hard making her cry out.  
  
He feels how she is drenching him with her arousal and tries to concentrate, rein in his release. She wants him to pound into her until she has to orgasm into a pillow to keep from waking her mother. She wants to be fucked raw. As if reading her mind, he starts to rock against her forcefully, the wet slaps of their bodies drowning out the music and the crackling fire. She feels her muscles tighten around him, the orgasm growing deep in her belly and the moan starting to form on her lips.  
  
" _Ad venire_ means to come," he pants deeply into her ear. And she will. Soon. Hard.  
  
  
 


End file.
